


Before They Even Hit The Air

by luxover



Category: David Cook (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:30:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/pseuds/luxover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: "Andy looks a lot like his sister when he's dressed up in drag."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before They Even Hit The Air

There’s a lot of fucking people crammed into the apartment, that’s for sure; Neal can barely even move to get another beer. And the weird thing is, he doesn’t even know most of them. He knows Alexis—of course, this is her apartment—and he knows Kyle, and he thinks Joey should be coming if he’s not here already, but besides that, Neal doesn’t know a goddamn soul.

“Who the fuck are all these people?” Neal asks, and Kyle laughs. They’re both slumped on the couch in the corner, and while Neal’s not all that drunk yet, Kyle is; Kyle’s pretty fucking drunk.

“Jealous already?” Kyle asks. “Just put the moves on her, man, just—”

Kyle fakes a yawn in order to stretch his arm around Neal’s shoulders, his hand coming down in front of Neal’s chest to pinch a nipple.

“Ow, fuck,” Neal says, and he elbows Kyle harder than he probably should. “Cut it out, asshole.”

“Just saying,” Kyle says, and he takes another sip of his beer. “I think her brother’s supposed to be here; maybe get in his good graces and he’ll hook you up.”

And that—Neal kind of refuses to admit that that’s actually a good idea.

“Isn’t he in like, fucking, tenth grade or something?” Neal asks. "I never met him."

“Twelfth,” Kyle says. He’s known the Skibs for ages, thinks it’s hilarious to watch Neal try to get with Alexis. “Good kid; plays guitar and is unbeatable at  _Golden Eye_.”

Neal makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. To be honest, that actually sounds like someone Neal would want to be friends with, would want to sit around and do nothing with.

“Andy, right?” Neal asks.

“Yeah,” Kyle tells him, and Neal thinks—thinks yeah, he’s going to talk to this kid, become friends with this kid and then maybe Alexis will think of him as more than just Neal With The Tattoos. He stands up, passes his empty can to Kyle and wipes his palms on his jeans. One sleeve of his denim jacket has unrolled itself and Neal fixes it, put’s it back in its place.

Kyle laughs, says, “This is a middle school soap opera romance. Do you like me, check yes or no.”

“Fuck you,” Neal says, and then he thinks it over and decides that, you know what, he’s going to just fucking go for it. He’s just going to go find Alexis and push her up against the wall just go for it, just kiss her.

He waves his fingers lazily at Kyle and then pushes his way through the crowd. And Jesus, there really are a shit ton of people. Neal doesn’t know any of them, doesn’t even recognize them.

And then someone yells out, “Tiemann! Motherfucker, over here!” It’s Joey.

“Hey!” Neal yells back over the music and the heads of the other people. “You seen Alexis?”

Joey jerks a thumb over his shoulder and says, “Her room, I think.”

“Thanks,” Neal says, and he pushes his way towards the back of the apartment, towards the bedrooms. 

Joey yells at his back, “Talk to me later, yeah? Found a sweet practice space!” And that—that catches Neal’s attention, but he’s a man on a motherfucking mission and so he doesn’t stop.

The hallway leading down to the two bedrooms is much quieter than the living room, and practically empty, too. Neal finds Alexis’s room—he assumes it’s hers because of the Bikini Kill sticker on the door—and knocks lightly. He doesn’t get an answer, and so he knocks a little harder, and when no one answers, something in Neal’s brain tells him that it would be a good idea to just open the door anyway.

And so he does.

Alexis is inside in stiletto heels and tights, and a short, short dress. She’s leaning over, her hair falling around her shoulders as she puts lipstick on in the mirror; it’s a dark red and Neal thinks that she looks fucking gorgeous in that color.

“Hey,” Neal says, to get her attention, and she jumps about a mile in the fucking air. “Sorry. I knocked,” like that makes any difference.

“Oh. It’s—um, it's okay,” she says, and her voice is deeper than usual, scratchy. He wants to make fun of her for it because he told her—he  _told_  her—that she wouldn’t be able to quit smoking, and here she is, sounding like she just chain-smoked an entire pack. He doesn’t, though, because he wants to get in her pants and because girls don’t like that, don’t like  _I told you so_.

“What’re you doing?” he asks instead, because he doesn’t understand why she’s here in her room and not out with everyone else.

“Just, uh,” she clears her throat and refuses to meet his eyes. It’s kind of pretty fucking endearing, actually. “Just trying on some lipstick.”

“I can see that,” Neal says, and he sucks a lip ring into his mouth as he thinks about his next move. And then he decides, fuck it. “It looks real good on you.”

She smiles and says, “Thanks,” and rolls her eyes, like maybe she thinks Neal didn’t mean it. Neal did; she looks fabulous in that dress—her ass and her legs,  _Jesus_ —and her smile. Fuck, her smile is just out of this fucking world, how did he not notice that before?

“I’m going to kiss you,” Neal says, and immediately feels like a fucking idiot, because who says that shit? He does, apparently, when he's drunk, and he’s just thankful it didn’t come out like a question.

“Alright,” Alexis says, and Neal walks forward, presses her back, and with one hand behind her neck and the other braced against the wall behind her, Neal leans down and kisses her. He kisses her soft and sweet, because girls like that shit, and she grabs tightly at the denim covering his hips.

And she’s a—fuck, she’s a good kisser, better than anyone Neal’s ever kissed, and he wants to fuck her, wants to fuck her real bad, wants to see what else she’s good at. And then she bites down on his lip—not gently, not at all—and Neal loves that, really fucking loves that, loves that his lip ring is in her mouth and that she’s not like other girls, not delicate or anything like that.

She brushes fingertips against the side of Neal’s neck, and it’s weird, but it almost feels like she’s got calluses on the tips of her fingers.

Neal pulls back and she says, “What?” He ignores her, just reaches for her hand and splays her fingers out, sees where the skin is rough on the tips, just like his are. And Neal thinks—Neal thinks, because he’s not entirely sure what’s going on.

“Just from playing guitar all the time,” she says, and Neal thinks,  _Alexis doesn’t play guitar._  And then he looks at her, looks at Alexis and the way she smiles and the color of her eyes and the width of her shoulders, and this—this isn’t Alexis.

“Andy fucking Skib,” Neal says, because that’s what he thought and he had to say something.

“Yeah?” Andy asks, and he smiles again—that fucking smile—and pushes his bangs out of his eyes. A wig, he’s wearing a fucking wig, Neal notices, and for a second Neal wants to freak out and leave because he thought he was making out with Alexis, but it’s not Alexis, it’s Alexis’s brother; Alexis’s brother who plays guitar and video games and who looks hot in makeup and heels and who kisses better than anyone Neal’s ever kissed in his entire like, and suddenly, suddenly Neal—

“Take that stupid wig off,” Neal says.

Andy does and Neal thinks he looks even better like that, with his shaggy hair in his eyes and his lipstick smudged around his mouth. He easily the sexiest high schooler Neal’s ever seen.

“Better?” Andy asks, and he looks Neal right in the eye, something that no girl would do, not in a situation like this.

“Yeah,” Neal says, and his voice comes out thick, gravelly. “Fuck, you’re hot.”

“You are too, you know,” Andy says, and he reaches an arm up, tugs on the hair at the base of Neal’s neck. “Saw a picture of you once.”

And the thought that—that maybe Andy remembered what Neal looked like after that, and that maybe he jerked off thinking about Neal—it’s too much, almost, even if it’s not true, and Neal leans forward and kisses him again.

Things are different, after that; less playful and more to the point. Andy grinds his hips up into Neal’s, and  _shit_ , now Neal can feel it, can feel how Andy’s half hard just like he is. And there’s the thought, somewhere in the back of Neal’s mind, that someone could walk in at any moment, or that maybe Alexis will never forgive him for fooling around with her brother and that maybe Kyle will never let him live it down, but Neal doesn’t really care, pushes the thought aside because Andy’s right there and he’s so much more beautiful that Neal could have imagined, and he’s touching Neal’s skin up underneath Neal’s shirt, and he’s wearing a dress that’s so thin that he might as well be wearing nothing at all, and all Neal wants is to touch him all over.

“Fuck, get this—come on,” Neal says, pulling away from the kiss. He tugs at the dress Andy’s in, tries to pull it up over his hips.

“I know, shit, sorry,” Andy says, and he lifts the hem of the dress up and pushes his tights down to his knees. “Come on,” he says.

Neal scrambles to undo his belt and open his jeans. He pulls his cock free from his boxers the second he can, and then he slides it against Andy’s, skin on skin, and they both say something, something half-thought and half-formed when he does, words that die in the back of their throats before they even hit the air.

Andy wastes no time, wraps his fingers around the both of them and skillfully jerks them both off at the same time, and Neal wonders how the fuck he can be so good at that when he’s only in high school, only a kid.  
Neal’s hips buck into Andy’s hand and he feels almost stupid for doing nothing, even though it feels good. He wants to be touching Andy and so he leans forward, kisses the side of Andy’s neck and bites down on his collarbones. He reaches between them, wraps his fingers around Andy’s and helps him jack them both off, quick and dirty.

Neal comes first because Andy says, “Shit,  _Neal_ ,” and he sounds wrecked, so fucking wrecked. His come gets all over Andy’s dress, and so does Andy’s, all over his dress and Neal’s shirt and denim jacket. Neal slumps against Andy for a second, trying to catch his breath. 

“Fuck,” he says. “Andy Skib,” and then he kisses him lazily while trying to figure out what the fuck to do next.

“I did, you know,” Andy says when he pulls away. Neal looks at him, confused, and so he continues, “Think about you when I jerked off. It was one fucking picture, too. Just one. But I could see you thinking about it when I told you.”

Neal runs his fingers along Andy’s hipbones while he thinks of what to say next. Andy does up Neal’s pants, his belt, and Neal doesn’t really know what to do, especially now that all of this has happened.

“My friend Kyle and I are starting up a band,” he says. “You should drop by and play with us sometime.”

“Yeah,” Andy says, and fixes his dress, his tights. “Alright, I will.”

“Good,” Neal says. He points backwards over his shoulder and says, “I should probably—”

“Yeah,” Andy says again. “Besides, I gotta—”

“Yeah,” Neal says, and he smiles because he can’t stop himself. “Okay, I’ll see you around.”

He leaves the room, looking back over his shoulder as he shuts the door behind him, and Andy’s just watching him leave, wearing ripped tights and stiletto heels. Neal saves that memory, saves it for later when he’s alone.

Kyle’s still lying on the couch when Neal gets back, and the only difference is that there are more empty beer cans at his feet now than there were earlier, and Alexis is sitting next to him.

“I know that smile, man,” Kyle says. “What happened, what happened?

“Nothing,” Neal says, and he smiles even wider because he can’t help it. “Hey Alexis, great party.”

“Thanks,” she says, and Neal thinks about her brother.

 


End file.
